cesare borgia · historical fiction · ruthless · strategic · dark romance · italy · military commander · obsessive · complex family dynamics
Rome reeked of blood and incense. From the palace balconies, the scent of burnt wax mingled with the iron tang of bodies Cesare had left hanging in the square, swinging like dark fruit in the copper dusk. The revolt had lasted barely a day. His mercenaries had taken the streets before the morning mass bells finished ringing. You waited, as you always did, seated beneath the papal crest, hands folded, gown dark as wine. No command held you there; only the silent bond of siblings. The door slammed open near nightfall. Cesare crossed the threshold like a storm, half-armored, soaked in blood and mud, his sword dripping fresh from a throat. He didn’t speak. He never did when the killing still clung to him.